


Corps à Corps

by Meadow Lion (Meadow_Lion)



Category: The Three Musketeers (1993)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Historical, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadow_Lion/pseuds/Meadow%20Lion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It violates the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corps à Corps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brightbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightbear/gifts).



> The beginning of this story occurs several years before the film's events do. I also tried to incorporate Alexandre Dumas' style and some of his canon's narrated background for the characters. However, the ultimate fates of the characters herein match their counterparts' fates in the film.
> 
> Brightbear's additional details request was a Rochefort quotation from the Disney film, "Bold words - I look forward to ramming them down your throat," which I used primarily as a way to establish the story's mood in my mind. I hope it still worked for her on that front. If not, well, any problems are my fault alone. Angel Negra was a super beta, even providing me with inspiration for the title. "Corps à Corps," a.k.a. "body contact between fencers," violates the rules of fencing.

Shortly after becoming an apprentice Musketeer at twenty-nine, Rochefort finds himself observing a series of matches in the barracks practice ring. A trio of men barely younger than he -- one blond, two dark-haired -- has been jointly sparring with small groups of other, significantly younger recruits, and their coordinated efforts make it clear that they are neither as new to the ranks as is Rochefort, nor as friendless. The larger dark-haired man displays brute strength; the wirier, quick feet; and the blond, both these fortes. All their opponents ultimately double over, gasping, outside the circle.

When the three call for fresh combatants, Rochefort steps forward alone. "It seems you have me at a disadvantage."

"Is that so." The blond's tone does not imply a question.

"As you will be fighting with six hands and I only two, yes." Rochefort spreads his arms for emphasis. That it points his fencing saber at the blond is not accidental.

A slow, predatory smile appears on the blond's face as he bends his left elbow, placing that hand behind his back. His two companions glance at each other. "Well, then shall we each only use one?"

"I accept that on one condition." Rochefort mirrors the smile, which does not change. "The one we use will be our left."

"Agreed."

The other two men use their tunics to tie back the combatants' right arms, and then join the crowd surrounding the ring. Rochefort and his adversary take three steps back from one another. Each taps his own forehead with the flat of his saber, and so it begins.

This step of the dance does not last long. Rochefort charges and is sent stumbling several feet past the blond by his parry. Upon turning to thrust again, Rochefort must veer sideways to avoid a riposte that would have spilled his innards from his navel. He paces backward before attempting -- and failing -- another attack.

He curses and begins to circle the blond in search of some opening, some weakness he did not detect when watching the trio earlier.

The blond holds his saber easily, even loosely, and matches him tread for tread, like a feline confident that the right moment to pounce will arrive. His voice, too, is casual. "You lunge too frequently. That may get you into trouble someday."

"'Someday' is not today." Rochefort hides his heavy breaths in the spaces between words. "Do you always submit advice to your sparring partners?"

"Not always," the blond says, with a considering look.

It seems too obvious a moment, but Rochefort feints to the side, attacks again, and is rewarded with a spot of blood on an unprotected area of the blond's inner forearm. "Lunging is not so problematic for me as you believe."

He has scarcely a moment to relish the point before he has to raise his arms to block an arcing slash, which still has enough strength to wound his wrist through his thin gloves and force him to his knees.

The blond presses the tip of his saber into the ground and leans against it. "Satisfied?"

Watching him, Rochefort almost perceives a wink. He raises one eyebrow. "For now."

"Until next time, then, monsieur." The blond lays down his saber to offer his free hand.

Rochefort clasps it with his own, left palm to left palm and blood to blood. "I am Rochefort. Until next time . . . "

"Athos. Porthos and Aramis," Athos adds with a nod to his companions now reentering the ring. Porthos and Aramis unbind Athos' and Rochefort's right arms.

Rochefort nods in turn and steps back to study their tactics anew.

*

He rarely speaks to anyone, let alone Athos or the other two, over the next few years. Training occupies much of his time, as Masters school him and the other apprentices in the ways of the Musketeer on horseback, on the battlefield, and even in the chapel and on the ballroom floor. The social graces hold little appeal for him, but Rochefort devotes himself to every form of learning, and absorbs every morsel of gossip shared near him without imparting any of his own. His parents would be pleased, thinking him keen to rise in the ranks. However, their thoughts stopped having consequence for him when they died and he left their indebted country estate to seek his fortune in Paris. The king's troops are simply a foothold, from which he plans to gain as much momentum as possible. He prepares himself for anything, including future encounters with Athos.

*

Regardless, the next step is unexpected. Rochefort leaves the barracks one night in search of a decent meal and a quiet drink, and ducks into a pub he has yet to visit. Athos is hunched over a bottle in a side booth.

Rochefort falters only briefly. He strides to the bar for a drink and sprawls, mug in hand, on the bench across from Athos.

"I prefer to drink alone," Athos says without lifting his gaze from his bottle.

Pouring ale down his throat, Rochefort savors the burn. "Ah, but what in our solitary acquaintance could have led you to think I care for your preferences?"

Athos glares now. His eyes are red, perhaps from the wine -- nearly emptied -- perhaps from another source. "So, your many months in study have taught you nothing."

"On the contrary. I have learned all that a Musketeer ought. But I seem to have learned precious little about you, Athos, beyond your affection for Aramis and Porthos. Tell me, what woman drives you to this absorption in your bottle? Or should I say, what person?"

"History, and no concern of yours."

Rochefort clucks his tongue. "Really, what kind of manners are those for a tried and true Musketeer?"

"The kind used upon someone who refuses to take a hint," Athos growls, in one movement pitching his bottle to the floor and grasping the neck of Rochefort's tunic. "Leave me be."

The few centimeters between their faces provide Rochefort with two notions. Firstly, Athos has most likely imbibed more than one bottle tonight, if his potent, heated breath is any indication. Secondly, the look in Athos' eyes and the flush infusing his cheeks are absolutely unrelated to liquor.

Rochefort wants to chuckle, but he knows better than to prick the balloon of tension between them that way. He flicks a handful of coins on the table. He pulls gradually free of Athos' grip but holds his gaze.

"If I go, so will you," he says, backing toward the door.

Athos stands and navigates the same route. Outside, he pushes Rochefort into an alley, slams him against the rear wall of the pub and kisses him, with wine and tongue and fire and fear. "You never give up, do you? You wanted this from the start."

"We have something in common then." Rochefort reaches for the laces of Athos' leggings.

"You said yourself, you don't know me," Athos says, his fists wrapped again in Rochefort's tunic.

As he lets himself be pushed down the wall, and bows his head to Athos, Rochefort whispers, "I know enough."

*

One week later, he first meets Cardinal Richelieu. Rochefort is in the barracks chapel, not thanking God for directing him to Athos, but thanking himself for having acquired the knowledge. Still, he smiles and kneels to express that silent gratitude, and he must appear devout. Upon entering the chapel, the Cardinal speaks only briefly with a priest before detouring to Rochefort's aisle.

"Such faith during one's free time is admirable, young Musketeer," the Cardinal says. His fingers nudge Rochefort's shoulder. "Might I interest you in exploring how much can be accomplished with great devotion to God's cause?"

Rochefort turns to kiss the proffered hand. "I am a willing student, your Eminence."

*

Subsequent meetings between Rochefort and Athos go much the same as went the last, though not all in that location. They meet in other alleys, in the woodlands bordering the barracks, and elsewhere, but never in either's bed. Tonight they have bribed a drowsy barracks stable boy to abandon his duties for an hour.

For once, Rochefort has got them both fully out of the trappings of their clothes. He moves against Athos and takes his mouth for a long kiss. Then he rolls, pulling Athos with him, to their knees. He tries to guide Athos' head downward.

Athos grabs his shoulder. "Wait."

"I have been waiting a year for more than your hand." Rochefort bares his teeth, not even the pretense of a smile. "I have never been your servant, nor will I become so. We will be equals or nothing, here."

Dropping his hand, Athos still does not bow as Rochefort has done. He lies on his back in the hay, legs wide and smooth, tawny stomach bared. Rochefort takes the offer.

This new coupling is harsher yet than the others have been. Every stroke drives Athos deeper into the stall, until Rochefort clenches his fists in Athos' hair to fix him at the best point. It is exquisite, nearly painful and beyond his dreams of such a moment.

Rochefort empties himself with a swallowed groan. Athos follows but does not appear to have enjoyed it. Rather, he looks throughout the experience how Rochefort imagines a dying lion: eyes squeezed tightly, mane tangled, and mouth open around a roar of anger and pain that lacks release.

They separate abruptly as usual. While they rearrange their clothing, they are silent, but when they are about to depart the stable, a comment from Athos narrows Rochefort's eyes.

"We should have been nothing."

And so they are thereafter, although this is not the end.

*

Rochefort is not unaware that the Cardinal intends to use him and may, in fact, be doing so already. However, he maintains willful ignorance. He recognizes the value of having access to his Eminence's power, yet being able to deny knowledge of the purposes of his own actions under the seeming influence of that power.

That is what he tells himself, as he lures D'Artagnan into position and attacks, having learned exactly where even the strongest man is most vulnerable. Kings will fall, like all men.

*

"We call for his immediate dismissal from the ranks!" Porthos shouts, amidst hollered agreement from the other Musketeers present.

"Indeed," Aramis says. "He must shoulder the blame for D'Artagnan's death."

Rochefort ignores them. "I merely did what was asked of me, and I did not act alone."

"As well as murder, the charge is betrayal."

Athos' rough voice draws the attention of Rochefort, who stares intently at him while countering, "My statement stands."

"So be it," says the Musketeer captain. "If you wish to name your accomplices, we could be persuaded to --"

"You will do nothing, because you have no proof. I will leave the Musketeers of my own volition, because I no longer choose to associate with cowards and fools." Rochefort strips off the embroidered blue tunic and thrusts his sword through it. He stalks away, whirls to throw the sword and tunic at Athos, and continues on his way without watching to see if Athos ducks.

*

The sight of Athos' blood, of the way he so gamely alters to a left-handed opposition, shakes loose something inside Rochefort that is so deeply buried, he does not register its presence at first. Athos turns away from him, leaving him to the ghost of a man that he already killed. Rochefort tries to learn this new dance but leaves himself open unintentionally; his own belly is unprotected. D'Artagnan takes this different offer.

The sword is a claw through Rochefort. For a moment, he feels leonine warmth pinning him, and then the weight is gone.

*~*~*

Their rescue of the king and queen complete, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis will follow the royal couple back to the great hall. The king, holding his wife's hand tucked into his elbow, will call for the remaining Musketeers to provide aid with fallen comrades and Guardsmen. He will announce the formation of an official council to determine the fates of the Cardinal's underground prisoners.

Aramis will begin circling the room, saying what he feels necessary over the bodies. As Porthos is binding Athos' arm with a sash, D'Artagnan will appear and proclaim his victory over the wicked Rochefort, most likely lacking reference to a lady-in-waiting, although the detail would interest Porthos.

Athos will simply nod and turn. He will take measured steps to where Rochefort lies. Kneeling slowly, he will stare at the unfamiliarly peaceful expression on the too-familiar face. Athos will press his left palm to his injured right arm until his glove is soaked, and spread his palm over the wet mark of Rochefort's death so that their blood mingles. With the slightest bow of his head, he will whisper words gifted him by another treacherous former lover -- words of sought and offered forgiveness.

 


End file.
